The American Boys

by Olivia Spooner

Genres: General Fiction; World War II

Synopsis

An unforgettable WWII love story inspired by the arrival of the US troops in Wellington.

Wellington, 1942. Lorna's brothers are overseas fighting for their lives, and as war rages in the Pacific, 20,000 Marines are sent to keep New Zealand safe. The Americans find their new post strange and unwelcoming, except for the Kiwi girls. When Lorna is dragged along on a double date, she befriends Stan, a Marine from Chicago.

Handsome and kind, Stan is the golden boy of his family. When he is posted to Guadalcanal, his wayward younger brother Alfie joins the Marines in Wellington. Lorna finds Alfie inexplicably infuriating - the complete opposite of Stan. But as he is sent off to fight, too, she can't stop thinking about him.

Which brother will return, how many hearts will be broken over the course of this brutal war, and will Lorna ever feel safe again?

Publisher: Hachette New Zealand

Print pages: 400

Sample

No mathematical equation could fix the situation, thought Lorna. She stepped from the tram, her body tingling with unease as icy drizzle immediately cloaked her coat. Taking a deep breath, Lorna berated herself. Buck up, don’t be silly. Think of your brothers. What was the point in getting worked up about something that hadn’t even happened yet? Might never happen, Lorna reminded herself. It was merely a possibility.

But how much of a possibility, Lorna wondered. What was the exact probability? Lorna loved working out probabilities, or had done when she was at school, but there was no equation she could formulate to give her the answer as to when and if the Japanese might invade her country. Surely there were statisticians working day and night on questions just like these. What did they know that she didn’t?

A few months earlier, Lorna had discovered that a boy called Rupert, who’d been in her maths class, was working as a statistician for the Navy. He had been good at maths, but he’d never excelled. He’d never been top of the class three years running.

Pleased her fear had been replaced with a simmering anger, Lorna wrapped her arms around herself and walked briskly, with her head bowed to shield her face from the bitter southerly wind tunnelling down the wide, empty street. It was almost dark. In one week it would be 21 June, the shortest day of the year. Lorna felt as if winter would never end, even though it had scarcely begun. She wished she could snap her fingers and be home.

The blackout siren sounded, eerie and forlorn, and the street lights immediately switched off. Lorna slowed, taking a moment to collect herself and for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Speeding up again, she hurried down three more blocks before turning onto Ranui Road, relieved to no longer be exposed to the full force of the wind. She glanced at Mrs Fogerty’s house on the corner and saw the small gap of light on one side of the front window suddenly disappear as the blackout curtain was quickly pressed back into place. Mrs Fogerty liked to know what was happening. Who was coming and going. She liked to stand at her front gate every morning and give her opinions to those walking past. Lorna wished Mrs Fogerty would mind her own business, but was also reassured knowing someone was keeping watch. Especially now. Judging by the protest cries of young, high-pitched voices coming from number 5 Ranui Road, the twins were reluctant to have their evening bath. Lorna heard their short, fast footsteps running up and down the hallway. She knew how hard it was to wrangle them into the bathroom, having babysat Lizzie and Patricia since they were babies. Lorna felt a twinge of sympathy for their mother, Mrs Rowlson, whose husband had been gone for months – he was an engineer on a merchant ship somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Every time Lorna saw Mrs Rowlson, concern for her husband’s safety seemed etched in her forehead, her lips, her tired eyes.

At the next house, the only empty house on their street, the road steepened dramatically and Lorna leant forward for the sharp ascent.

‘Lorrie!’

Turning, Lorna spotted her sister-in-law, Penny, waving from across the street as she pulled her gate closed behind her. ‘Wait for me.’

Lorna waited until Penny was alongside, then they continued, Lorna on the footpath, Penny on the unpaved road beside her. ‘Any news?’ Lorna asked.

‘Nothing,’ Penny replied. ‘Did you see the papers?’

Lorna nodded, her chest tight. ‘Dad isn’t happy.’

‘No,’ said Penny. ‘Neither am I.’

Chester leapt at the fence at number 9, barking, his claws clacking on the wood, and Lorna and Penny shouted at him to be quiet. Chester immediately settled down and Lorna leant over the gate to give his ears a rub. ‘Good boy,’ she whispered. ‘Not much longer now.’ Mr Bolton worked at Government House in some important role he delighted at being evasive about. He would arrive home at 6.15 pm, then Chester would go inside the house, receive his dinner, and curl up at Mr Bolton’s feet while they listened to the radio.

The road widened into a cul-de-sac and soon the two young women reached the last house on the street. Penny unlatched the gate and waited for Lorna to walk through before closing it and following her up the twenty-nine steps to the front door. Lorna could hear the radio in the living room, the clang of dishes from the kitchen. She turned the handle and pushed, immediately hit by the smell of roast mutton and excited nudges from Milly’s nose. ‘Alright, girl, let us get inside.’ Milly was an old Labrador but still managed to drag herself to the door whenever she heard someone coming up the steps.

‘That you, Lorrie?’ called Lorna’s mum, popping her head out of the kitchen door at the end of the hallway. ‘Penny too!’ she exclaimed happily.

‘Hi, Mum,’ said Lorna, though she had already disappeared.

‘In here,’ bellowed Lorna’s dad.

Lorna and Penny hung their coats on the rack and entered the living room. In his armchair by the fire, Lorna’s dad sat with his legs extended, crossed at the ankles, slippers on. He looked at them over the top of his pipe and raised his eyebrows in greeting. Lorna gave him a kiss on the forehead then moved to stand with her back to the fire, exhaling as the warm air hit her cold, damp trousers. Penny bent to give her father-in-law a peck on the cheek and he grasped her hand. ‘Looks like our boys are back in the fray,’ he said sternly.

‘Yes,’ Penny replied, her voice cracking. ‘Looks like it.’

Lorna studied the swirling brown-and-yellow pattern on the carpet and tried to think of a way to lift the atmosphere in the room. ‘Thought you’d be at the pub, Dad,’ she said brightly.

‘Not today, love,’ he replied. ‘Thought I’d best be home early.’

Lorna studied her father, her eyes narrowing. His shoulders were tense and there was an alertness to him, as if he might suddenly leap from his chair.

‘Why?’ she asked, warily.

Her father glanced at her briefly then stared at the pipe gripped in his hand. ‘Jim called—’ he coughed. ‘He said a Japanese sub was sighted off the coast up near Castlepoint last night.’

Lorna bit her lip and quickly spun to face the fire, her heart racing. A few weeks earlier the Japanese had attacked Sydney. Now they were practically on New Zealand’s doorstep. The probability of invasion was clearly higher than ever.

‘Our boys should have come home,’ snapped Penny, double checking that the blackouts over the windows were firmly in place. ‘They should be here defending their country. Helping us.’

‘Your mother was reluctant for me to mention it,’ said Lorna’s dad. ‘She doesn’t want you worrying, Lorrie.’

Then why did you tell me? thought Lorna.

The front door slammed and Lorna’s younger brother, Peter, charged into the room, his nose and cheeks bright red from the cold, his knees muddy below the baggy shorts of his rugby uniform. Lorna was instantly jealous and wished she could have spent the afternoon playing sport too. She loved that burn in her lungs from pushing herself hard, the ache in her muscles.

‘I scored a try just before full-time, Dad!’ Peter said. ‘Right between the posts.’

‘Top effort,’ said their dad. ‘What was the score?’

Peter made a face. ‘We lost, but we were up against the first fifteen and they weren’t that much better than us. I reckon I’ve got a chance of making the team next year.’

‘They’d be mad not to have you,’ said Lorna’s dad. ‘Who else has your sort of speed, eh?’

Peter grinned and looked at Lorna. ‘Did Dad tell you about the Japs?’

Lorna nodded.

‘Do you want to come to the lookout later? See if we can spot them?’

‘No one leaves this house,’ their dad said firmly.

Lorna was relieved. She didn’t fancy spending several hours huddled in the lookout she’d built with her brother three years earlier when war had first been declared. Back then, she’d been a quiet girl in school worried about whether or not she would make top of the class. Back then, she would happily go on adventures with her brother after school and on weekends. Lorna was different now. Grown up. School felt like a lifetime ago.

‘Tea’s ready!’ her mum called.

Her dad lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want any talk of the Japanese at the table,’ he said, fixing Peter with a wide stare.

They made their way down the hallway and into the kitchen, then through bevelled glass doors off to one side to take their seats in the dining room. Lorna’s mum had set the table with a white linen tablecloth. Fancy napkins were rolled up and tucked inside the silver napkin rings usually reserved for birthdays and Christmas.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Lorna asked, giving her mum a quick hug and waving at her Aunty Jean who was taking a seat opposite. Uncle Jerry must have been on home-guard duty again. Aunty Jean always helped Lorna’s mum with dinner and ate with them when he was away. She didn’t like being home on her own at night.

‘I thought it would be nice,’ said her mum, removing her apron, hanging it on the hook behind the kitchen door, and taking her seat at the end of the table. ‘Help to …’ she paused and for a second the happy expression on her face slipped before she could find it again. ‘I thought it might perk us up, that’s all.’

‘It’s lovely,’ said her dad, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table to his wife. ‘And you know how much I love your roast.’

Lorna stayed quiet. They had roast mutton with roast potatoes, carrots, parsnips and peas at least twice a week. She was heartily sick of it and was sure her dad couldn’t love her mum’s roast quite as much as he said he did.

Milly snuck under the table and settled down in her usual spot at Lorna’s feet. Lorna slipped off a shoe and pressed her toes into Milly’s fur to warm them up, and to try to ease the knot in her stomach. She wanted to ask what would happen if the Japanese invaded. She wanted to ask if anyone had checked that the bomb shelter they’d dug in the backyard was still in good condition. Perhaps they should put some supplies out there tonight just in case: blankets and food and water and maybe a weapon of some kind. Her dad didn’t own a gun. Maybe he should get one tomorrow.

‘You’ll never guess who the tram conductor was tonight,’ Lorna said instead, picking up her knife and fork.

‘Who?’ asked Aunty Jean, matching Lorna’s light tone.

Lorna paused for effect. ‘Mrs Waters,’ she stated.

Peter snorted and his dad gave him a warning look.

‘Mrs Waters from number four?’ said her mum, her face incredulous.

‘The very one,’ said Lorna. ‘Who would have thought?’

‘Indeed,’ said Aunty Jean. ‘I have to say I didn’t see that one coming.’

‘Well I won’t be catching the tram again,’ mumbled Peter.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ said their mum automatically. ‘I think it’s commendable. We all have to find ways to pitch in with so many of our men overseas or called up for war work.’

‘Yes, but Mum, this is the same Mrs Waters who wrote to the newspaper to say trams were encouraging idleness,’ said Lorna.

‘She also told me school children should be banned from using the tram as they’re too disruptive,’ said Peter.

‘She was the friendliest she’s ever been,’ said Lorna. It had taken her several minutes to realise the conductor was Mrs Waters – she’d looked so different in her uniform. ‘I think Mrs Waters was rather proud to be working. And she told me I was doing important work and I’d made the right decision to leave school when I did.’

‘We have different opinions there, as you know,’ muttered her mum.

Lorna had left school midway through the previous year, and her mother had been bitterly disappointed, though she’d eventually conceded there’d been little choice. The country was desperate for women to work in essential industries and it would have been poor form, not to mention unpatriotic, for Lorna to stay. What was the point in her seeing out the year? Especially when she would have been the only girl from her year left at school.

‘Did you ask her about Patrick?’ said Peter loudly.

Lorna glared at Peter, knowing he was teasing her. ‘No, I did not,’ she said, concentrating on slicing her mutton. Patrick was Mrs Waters’ son. He was a year older than Lorna and though she’d never been one to take an interest in boys (not like her best friend, Karen), she had always admired Patrick, impressed with the way he was able to speak in front of others with such confidence and clarity. Lorna had been envious when he’d won the speech contest in his final year of school, as she often found it a challenge, her words tumbling out rapidly, as jumbled and rambling as her thoughts. How did he manage to stay so composed?

While they’d grown up on the same street, she’d barely said a word to Patrick, which wasn’t unusual by any means. Boys and girls talking to one another was not something parents, teachers, or members of the community encouraged. The last Lorna had heard, Patrick had joined the Air Force and was at a training camp in England.

Lorna’s dad cleared his throat and Lorna hesitated, her fork inches from her mouth. When her dad cleared his throat, it meant he had something important to say. ‘As you know, I’ve been overseeing the food stores down at the port,’ he said. ‘There’s been a great deal of talk recently, what with all the comings and goings, not to mention all the building equipment being carted out to the coast. It’s all being kept rather secretive, but I believe they’ve been building a military camp, and judging by the sudden influx of goods and artillery in the last few days I believe something might be about to happen.’ He paused. ‘Very soon,’ he added.

‘Military camp,’ said Penny. ‘Do you think our boys are coming home?’ she added hopefully.

Lorna’s dad shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Pen.’

Lorna glanced at the photo on the sideboard of her two older brothers standing proudly in their army uniforms. She hadn’t seen them in over two years. Not since they’d joined the Expeditionary Force and left to fight in the Middle East.

‘Then who?’ asked Peter, jiggling in his seat. ‘What’s going on, Dad?’

‘I don’t know for sure, son. But I’ve heard rumours.’

‘Rumours?’ said Lorna’s mum. ‘What rumours, Frank?’

Lorna’s dad placed his knife and fork down, picked up his napkin and dabbed his lips as he looked around the table. Slowly he placed his napkin back on his lap and took a deep breath. ‘Americans,’ he stated at last.

Lorna saw a look she couldn’t interpret pass between her father and mother. ‘Why would Americans be coming here, Dad?’ she asked carefully.

He gave Lorna a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. ‘To help us.’

‘To help us against the Japanese, you mean?’ Lorna felt a piece of mutton stick in her throat.

‘Americans!’ Peter shouted, leaping out of his chair with excitement.

Looking across the table, Lorna saw tears pooling in Penny’s eyes.

Not a single Marine on board the USS Wakefield had heard of New Zealand. They knew nothing about the place. All they had to go on was the small pocket guide they’d been given the night before, when they’d been informed they would soon be arriving at this small island nation deep in the South Pacific. According to the guide – in bold type on the front cover – New Zealand was a country of great scenic beauty. It was an independent nation within the British Commonwealth. A country where tipping was disliked and actively discouraged, and where the police were unarmed. The guide then told them what they would not find in New Zealand. There was no central heating; no nightclubs; little organised entertainment; no hot cakes, donuts, waffles, hot dogs, hamburgers or decent coffee. There was also less money, less to drink, less to wear and less gasoline.

Needless to say, the boys were less than enthusiastic that freezing wet winter’s morning as their battleship cruised into a narrow harbour surrounded by green hills. The Marines were lined up along the railings in their pressed and impeccably clean uniforms as their ship rounded a headland and the small city and port of Wellington came into view. There wasn’t a skyscraper in sight, the tallest building being only five or six storeys high.

‘Heck,’ said Derek, standing beside Stan.

Stan kept his expression impassive as he scrutinised the clusters of wooden houses clinging to the sides of the hills enclosing the city. The houses were dark, no lights on, no signs of life but for the plumes of smoke coming from chimneys. The wind was brisk and carried with it the smell of coal and fish. It was 0800 hours and yet it was barely light, the sky a washed-out, sepia grey. The few buildings Stan could see surrounding the port looked old-fashioned, Victorian, with a stately air that made him think of England, not that he had ever been. To the far left of the port was a beach covered in barbed wire entanglements.

‘Bit different from Chicago, ain’t it?’ said Derek, nudging Stan in the ribs.

‘A bit,’ agreed Stan, brushing down his jacket where Derek’s elbow had been.

Eventually they berthed at the wharf and the skies decided to open, pelting the thousands of men on board with thick icy droplets. What a welcome, thought Stan.

With the rain still coming down, a small crowd of officials gathered beneath them on the wharf and a military band played The Star-Spangled Banner, which meant they unfortunately all had to salute – not an easy feat when they were all packed in so tightly on deck. Stan had hoped the wharf would be thronging with New Zealanders shouting greetings and waving white handkerchiefs. Instead, it looked as if few people knew that the United States Marine Corps – the best of the best, the very emblem of honour, strength and skill, who had travelled hundreds of miles to give these poor islanders the full might and protection of the best military unit in the world – had arrived. Stan brushed away his irritation and reminded himself, as he did regularly ever since his acceptance into the Marine Corps, that he was lucky to be here. Lucky to have a clean uniform, new boots and a purpose.

Three hours later, 6788 members of the 1st Division of the United States Marine Corps disembarked. They stood in formation on the wharf until they were each handed a glass bottle filled with milk from wagons loaded with milk crates. Derek raised his eyebrows at Stan before taking a sip. Then his eyes widened and he immediately began to take huge gulps. Reassured, Stan tried the milk, and his tastebuds exploded. It was the best milk he’d ever tasted, and the freshest thing they’d had since leaving San Diego. Once their bottles had been emptied, the boys placed them in the crates and went to stand with their units on the wharf, rain dripping off their brimless hats as they waited for their gear to be offloaded.

‘What’s taking them so darn long?’ muttered the boy beside Stan. A group of civilians in black oilskin jackets and thick woollen hats were gathered with senior officers from the US Headquarters division. Their voices were raised and they all took turns gesticulating at the Wakefield before shaking their heads.

Finally, word spread that the Marines would be required to offload their gear themselves.

‘We have unfortunately arrived during an industrial dispute and the dockworkers are on strike,’ said their commanding officer.

‘What do ya mean, on strike?’ asked a Marine in the front row.

‘They’re unhappy with their current working conditions and are refusing to work in the rain.’

Stan was incredulous. How could you simply refuse to work because it was raining? He’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ their commanding officer shouted.

It was a long, slow, painful process. Stan was stunned at the sheer bulk the Wakefield had been carrying within its gunnels. How had the ship not sunk with the weight of all their supplies? Within a few hours, the wharves were laden with piles of barrels, rubber tyres, ammunition, food crates and equipment.

Stan was relieved when eventually his unit was instructed to gather up their packs and make their way to the train station. From there, they would be transported to camp.

As they marched down the street from the wharf towards the station, Stan noticed the buildings were charming yet drab. There were few locals around, and the shops were all closed. ‘Apparently everything is shut on Sundays by law,’ said a Marine marching beside him.

Stan gave a small shake of his head. He actually missed Chicago right now, something he never thought would happen. He missed the scale of it, the hustle and bustle, the pulsing energy. Up ahead an old-fashioned car rounded a corner and headed towards them on the wrong side of the road. The Marines all instinctively began to move further to the right so he might pass, but the car continued to motor towards them before slowing to a stop so that the Marines had to split their lines to march around him. The driver wound down his window, lit a pipe and nodded his head in greeting.

It wasn’t until they turned the corner and met with several more cars that Stan realised what was going on. ‘They drive on the other side,’ he said to himself.

‘What’s that?’ asked another Marine.

‘They drive on the left, not the right,’ said Stan, louder this time.

A short while later, the train station came into view and Stan felt a rush of excitement. He sensed the other Marines perk up too as they quickened their pace. The station was a magnificent brick building, with a row of circular white columns at the main entrance, above which sat a beautiful clock set within a detailed facade. Before the station was a broad tract of manicured lawn and a road that swept down and around in front of the building.

The rain chose that moment to stop and the clouds broke apart, brightening the view and Stan’s mood even further. Marching through the arched main doors and onto the concourse, the boys looked with delight at the grand curved ceiling soaring above them. The kiosks were all closed, and the station grew loud with the sound of thousands of Marines gathered about, waiting for instructions.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long before they were directed onto a platform where several trains were lined up, belching black smoke. The carriages looked worn, and when Stan stepped inside, he was disappointed to discover there was no heating and the interiors were shabby. Worse than the trains in Chicago, thought Stan, something he hadn’t believed possible till now. In yet another exercise in patience, they waited and waited until finally the train blasted its horn and they pulled away from the platform.

All the seats had been taken before he boarded, so Stan was wedged in a corner of the carriage beside the door. He rested on his pack and braced himself against the wall, then pulled out his cigarettes, joining with the other men in lighting up and wondering how on earth he had ended up here, in this strange country so far from America. Briefly he thought of his younger brother and sister. He hoped they were coping alright back in Chicago without him.

The train rattled along at a painful amble, especially when climbing the endless hills they encountered one after another. Derek and Bruno smoked nearby. His two buddies, Stan supposed, though Stan knew he was being generous in the use of the word. Stan didn’t really have close buddies, though he wasn’t a loner either. He was popular in his regiment, well-respected. He joined in with everything and knew exactly the right thing to say and do, but so much of it was an act. A performance. Stan had learnt early on what would garner him the most admiration and praise from his mother – do well at school, excel at sport, look adults in the eye, shake their hands firmly, stand straight, be polite, laugh when others laugh, and show a relaxed confidence you might not necessarily feel. Stan knew how to win people over. He’d been honing those skills for so many years they were effortless, and yet, they didn’t make him feel good about himself. If anything, he liked himself less.

After a long, bone-rattling journey, during which Stan smoked six cigarettes, the train stopped. Being by the door, Stan was one of the first to disembark and survey their new home. The Marines had been told they would be based in New Zealand for six months to prepare and train for deployment in the escalating fight against the Japanese. They were in the countryside on low, undulating farmland. In the near distance Stan could make out the coastline, the sea a deep turquoise, and behind him rose steep grassy hills covered with grazing sheep. The wind had dropped off and it. . .